


Jane and Tarzan, Scene 3

by jro512



Series: Jane and Tarzan (Disney 1999) [3]
Category: Disney Animated Fandoms, Tarzan (1999)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance, Slapstick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jro512/pseuds/jro512
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>campsite tomfoolery</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jane and Tarzan, Scene 3

Jane lounges against a bough of broad leaves at the edge of the camp, sketching a group of lovebirds chattering in the foliage. The afternoon is cool for a change. Usually, Jane suffers away in silence as sweat drips down her back and slowly soaks through her fine pastel yellow shirts. She has all but given up on the proper layers of ladies’ clothing and has taken to wearing a silk underdress and wraparound skirt. It helps a bit, and maybe she’ll make it back to England with at least one unstained, presentable dress. Her father pays her state of dress no mind, though Clayton scowls and grumbles about it. But he never approved of Jane’s presence on this trip anyway. Jane decided long ago to pay no mind to Claytons’ editorializing.

Jane sniffs at the thought and tosses her head to clear a few errant strands obstructing the path of pencil against sketchbook. She catches a glimpse of Tarzan following Porter this way and that as he tinkers together a bicycle. It’s been slow going, since Tarzan is just as likely to hand over the requested tool as he is to try to pick it apart with his focused gaze and nimble hands. Jane muffles a giggle as Tarzan plops to a seat on the ground and hands Porter a small copper instrument with his toes while he turns a multi-headed wrench over and over in his long fingers.

Clayton strides up behind Tarzan and snatches up the wrench. “Pro-fess¬-or!” he snarls. 

Porter waves a distracted hand, nose still stuck in some apparatus of the wheel. Tarzan jumps up and reaches over Clayton’s shoulder for the wrench.

Clayton growls and tosses off the offending limb with a sharp twist of the shoulder. “Professor,” he begins again in a more composed tone, “we’re here to find gorillas, not entertain some… naked ape-savage!”

Porter’s expression brightens. “Ah! The head fits between the opposing apical protrusions. Then if I apply a twisty turn just here…”

Tarzan ducks under Clayton’s elbow with a demanding sort of grunt and makes another grab for the wrench. Clayton drops it into Porter’s tool case and slams it shut. With a deep breath, he takes Porter by the shoulders and forces the old man to face him.

“Pro. Fess. Or.”

“Oh? Oh yes, something afoot, my dear Clayton?”

“About the day’s plans—we should be going soon or dusk will overtake us before we can make camp,” Clayton explains patiently, enunciating word by word as though speaking to a slow child.

Jane frowns. Clayton’s condescending attitude toward her, her father, Tarzan—really, the fact that this whole expedition hadn’t just devolved into his own personal trophy hunting trip— sticks in her craw.

“Ohhh, no, don’t trouble yourself!” Porter gives the solid mass of shoulders crouched over him a reassuring pat. “No, this afternoon is booked. Tarzan is assisting me to assemble this old bicycle of my brother’s. Haven’t a notion why I packed the silly thing, but at any rate it’s turned out quite useful in the endeavor of teaching Tarzan a universally applicable vocabulary, and I imagine he’ll get a bit of fun out of it too, and good thing, Lord knows I haven’t for ages. Ah, Tarzan, the manicapitus wrench, if you would?”

Tarzan swipes the confiscated tool back out of the case and hands it to Porter. Clayton returns to his feet with an exasperated tossing up of hands and a rasping sigh. He marches away, fingers balled into fists like hams and arms flexed at the elbow.

Jane watches a mischievous grin grow across Tarzan’s face. He abandons his study of Porter’s tools and lopes along behind Clayton in an exaggerated mime of his officious stride.

Jane laughs.

Clayton grunts and stomps on, unaware of the mockery. But Tarzan stops and swivels on a dime. He glares at Jane and swaggers in her direction, shaking a finger. It only makes Jane laugh harder, and by the time Tarzan reaches her his expression has melted into a grin.

He hops up into the bough next to her and the underlying branch rocks back and forth. The nearby lovebirds shift in a commotion of color, moving higher up in the trees.

“Drawing, Jane?”

Jane hushes him with a flutter of her wrist. A single lovebird remains on a suspended vine just in front of her. She places her pencil against the rough, fibrous paper, preparing for a careful stroke.

A monumental crash sounds in the direction of Jane's tent. She and Tarzan jump to their feet as one. There, sprawled under the Union Jack in the middle of the camp, is Porter, sitting up and rubbing his head with a look of bemused dissatisfaction. The flagpole is still vibrating, and bicycle parts are still scattering.

"Goodness!" Porter expostulates. "Goodness me, my, I must have missed-- oh! Oh! Clayton! Clayton, my man, the wheel!"

The diminutive rear wheel of the bicycle is making a wobbly run down the path toward the shore. With a muttered curse, Clayton runs after it.

"Daddy, are you all right?" Jane drops the sketchbook into Tarzan's hands and scurries to Porter's side, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

"Yes, fine dear. Not to worry," Porter replies. "I may have misjudged the relationship between my speed and the steering apparatus. No worse for the wear! Can't say the same for that bicycle though. Once Clayton retrieves the wheel, I'll have to take a closer look at the thing."

Jane helps him to his feet and dusts his shoulders off like a mother hen, performing a circuit around him to inspect for injuries.

"No contusions, no lacerations?" Porter inquires with a playful pat to his daughter's shoulder. "I've passed inspection, I trust?"

Jane smiles. "Yes, daddy. Just making sure."

"You are a darling. Now, go on," he urges in a quieter tone. "You and the young fellow were sharing a moment, were you not?" He winks and saunters down toward the shore, calling to Clayton.

Jane watches after him for a moment, shaking her head with an odd sort of half-grin. Then she returns to her bough and accepts her sketchbook from the patient man.

"Thank you, Tarzan." Her words are sincere, but her face is drawn. She glances at the unfinished sketch, then upward into the trees. She sighs.

Tarzan follows her gaze. The lovebirds have disappeared and the canopy is still.

"Jane," he says. His eyes are bright. She gives him a curious look. "Come with me."

When they return to camp, night has fallen, and Jane has forgotten about the sketchbook.


End file.
